Subakh ul kuhar, Muad’Dib! Are you well? Are you out there?

—Fremen chant to wind and sand

He needed the desert, the vast ocean without water that covered most of the planet. Too much time in the city with its priests and Landsraad members arguing over plans for Muad’Dib’s funeral had been wearing on Stilgar. And those noisy pilgrims from other worlds! They were everywhere, clamoring and pushing, giving him no space or time to think.

Finally, after the envoy from Shaddam IV suffered his tragic accident, Stilgar decided to depart for Sietch Tabr, to immerse himself in the purity of Fremen life. He hoped it would cleanse his mental palate and make him feel real again, a Naib instead of a robed ornament in Alia’s court. He made the journey alone, leaving his wife Harah back at the Citadel to watch the Atreides twins.

At Sietch Tabr, however, he found many changes that disappointed him. It was like the slow fall of sand grains down a slipface, each grain too small to be noticed, but cumulatively causing a significant change. After so many years of Jihad, offworld influences had diluted the Fremen. Their hardships had eased, and their lives were no longer the difficult struggle they once had been. And with comforts came weakness. Stilgar knew the signs. He had watched the changes, and the sietch could no longer offer him the purity he sought. In the end he stayed only one night.

Early the next morning, he was out on the open sand, riding a powerful worm. As the behemoth carried him back toward the Shield Wall and Arrakeen, he wondered if the mother of Muad’Dib would return for her son’s funeral. Jessica was a Sayyadina in her own right, and Stilgar felt that Dune had lost part of its soul when she’d chosen to go back to her water world instead of remaining here. How good it would be to see her again, though he was sure even Jessica must have changed.

As a precaution, he would gather his best Fedaykin in Arrakeen, where they could stand guard with Alia’s soldiers to welcome the mother of the Messiah—if she chose to return. Jessica didn’t need the pomp and ceremony, but she might need his protection.

Stilgar found his solo ride across the desert invigorating and cleansing. Sitting high on the gray-tan segments of the sandworm, he listened to the hiss of grains as the enormous sinuous body glided along. The hot desert winds caressed Stilgar’s face, winds that would easily erase the tracks of the worm behind them, winds that would make the desert pristine again. This experience made him feel whole once more—planting his own thumper, mounting the worm with his hooks and spreaders, guiding the monster to his will.

Ever since Muad’Dib had gone out to face his fate, the superstitious Fremen and the people of pan and graben claimed that he had joined Shai-Hulud—literally and spiritually. Some villagers had taken to placing empty pots on shelves or in windows to symbolize the fact that Muad’Dib’s water had never been found, that he had mingled with the sands, with the deity Shai-Hulud. . . .

Only hours after Muad’Dib had walked out onto the sand, sweet and bereaved Alia had asked Stilgar to follow orders that he knew were contrary to Paul’s direct wishes. She tapped into the Naib’s core beliefs and his need for revenge until he convinced himself that Muad’Dib’s contradictory intent was merely a test. After so much pain and death, Stilgar had wanted to feel blood on his hands. As a Naib he had killed many men, and as a fighter in Muad’Dib’s Jihad, he had slaughtered countless others.

A night of killing had ensued, as the details of the complex conspiracy began to unfold. Korba, a brave Fedaykin who had let himself become too important in the priesthood, was the first implicated, his guilt plain to a council of Fremen Naibs. His execution at Stilgar’s hands had been easy, necessary, and bloody.

But Stilgar had never before killed a Guild Steersman, nor had he ever killed a Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit. Yet, when Alia gave the command, he’d committed the acts without question.

The captive Steersman Edric had wielded the power of the Spacing Guild and carried the political weight of an appointed ambassador, but his safety depended on civilized restraints that meant nothing to Stilgar. Smashing the tank had been simple. When the spice gas drained away and the Steersman flopped about like a spindly aquatic creature cast up on a hostile shore, Stilgar had gripped the mutant’s rubbery flesh and snapped the cartilaginous neck. He had taken no great pleasure in it.

The Bene Gesserit witch Mohiam was another matter entirely. Though Stilgar was a great Fremen fighter, this old woman had powers he did not understand, fearsome ways that could have rendered an attack against her very difficult, had he not had the advantage of surprise. He succeeded in killing her only because Mohiam never believed he would actually disobey Paul’s orders that she was not to be harmed.

To accomplish the task he had used a clever subterfuge to have her gagged so that she could not use the power of Voice against him, and the old witch had submitted. Had she suspected that her life was threatened, she would have fought tenaciously. Stilgar had not wanted a battle; he wanted an execution.

With the gag firmly set over her mouth, and her hands tied to the chair, Stilgar had stood before the old woman. “Chani—daughter of Liet and beloved of Muad’Dib—is dead after giving birth to twin children.” Mohiam’s bright eyes widened; he could see she wanted to say something, but was unable. “The ghola Hayt has broken his indoctrination and refused to kill Paul-Muad’Dib.” The witch’s expression had been a thunderstorm of activity as thoughts flashed through her mind. “Nevertheless, Muad’Dib has given himself to Shai-Hulud, as a blind Fremen is expected to do.”

Stilgar withdrew the crysknife from his belt. “Now true justice falls to me. We know your part in the conspiracy.” Mohiam began to struggle against her bonds. “The Guild Steersman is already dead, and Korba, too. Princess Irulan has been imprisoned in a death cell.”

There was a sound of snapping bonds . . . or perhaps it was the sound of wrist bones breaking. Regardless, Mohiam freed one of her hands. It flashed to the gag over her mouth, but Stilgar’s crysknife was faster. He stabbed her chest, knowing it to be a mortal wound, but the Reverend Mother kept moving, forcing her hand to pull the gag free.

Stilgar struck again, puncturing her larynx and slashing her throat, causing her to slump. He kicked the chair and body over, then looked at his sticky fingers. As he wiped the milky blade on the Reverend Mother’s dark robes, he realized that the blood of the witch looked and smelled the same as any other blood. . . .

Those had not been the only killings ordered by Alia. It had been a long and difficult night.

Now, as the great worm approached the gap that had been blasted through the Shield Wall by Paul’s atomics, Stilgar saw a barricade of water-filled qanats that no worm could cross—especially a tired one like this. Better to release the beast here, out on the open sand. He had ridden and released so many sandworms that he had lost count. As a Fremen, guiding the sacred creatures over the dunes had always been dangerous, but not to be feared. If you followed the proper protocol.

Short of the gap, he set the creature in motion, slipped down the pebbled rings, and tumbled off onto the sand. Then he rose to his feet and remained motionless, so that the worm would not detect his presence. Sandworms had no eyes, simply sensed vibrations.

But the creature paused and turned his way as soon as Stilgar released it. Usually, a worm set free of its rider would lurch away into the desert, or bury itself under the sand and sulk. But this one remained where it was, looming, intimidating. It raised its giant head high, facing down, toward him. Its mouth was a round cave bristling with tiny crystalline knives.

Stilgar froze in the enormous presence of the creature. It knew he was there, yet it did not move toward him, did not attack. Trembling slightly, the Naib could not forget the whispered rumors that Muad’Dib, having trekked out on the sands, had become one with Shai-Hulud. The sandworm’s eyeless head had an eerie, sightless gaze . . . making him think of Muad’Dib. Though blinded, the great man had been able to see Stilgar through prescience.

He felt a sudden chill. Something was different. He breathed slowly, forming the words in his thoughts but with barely a sound passing across his dry lips. “Muad’Dib, are you there?”

It seemed foolish, but he could not escape the feeling. In an instant, the sandworm could dive down and devour him, but it did not.

After several long, tense moments, the enormous creature turned and glided off into the sands, leaving Stilgar standing there, shaking. He watched as the creature drifted off and burrowed itself deep, leaving barely a ripple to mark its passage.

Tingling with awe, wondering what exactly he had just experienced, Stilgar sprinted with a well-practiced stutter-step across the dunes toward the Shield Wall and the great city beyond.